The parking lot was owned by a family. The old man, head of the family, carefully checked our rental agreement. He then smiled shyly and firmly shook our hands. Then he walked back and handed me two fruits which I don't know the name. He gestured for me to eat. They looked suspicious. I hesitated.
He took them back, led me to the wash basin in the yard. He washed them and peeled them and handed back to me. I was so touched and I felt instantly at home at this village. I was wondering that we were the only two Aisan faces I saw all the way from Rome. But I felt at home, more so that Rome. Although I usually felt more comfortable in big Metropolitans. Porsitano poses something different. Somehow it has reserved, a sense of purity and stragihtforwardness that belongs to people on the mountain or beside the sea. The sense of openness and pride to share.
Our landlord Salvador arrived in a scooter. He is a big guy, but smile a big smile. He reminded me of a friendly polar bear.
There is a little grocery store near the parking lot. I liked the dried red peppers hanging outside the wall. This is where we got daily suppliers of water, beers and snacks, for after hours when all restaurants are closed.
I walked down toward the beach one morning. A lovely bay with the stone lighthouse. It was crowded with vacationers, Italian or British. Little boats floats on the water. They look like reflections of stars at night.
I always collect rocks from the places I visited. It is a hobby I inherited from my father. It is better if you can tell what the rocks look like, trying to picture an image. But most of the time, they are just little rocks. And they are positano rocks. They now lie on a corner of my studio apartment in New York.
Water are so clear that I can not believe it is ocean. It feels like a creek.
I love this book that I found in the rental apartment. It is a collection of short stories of passion and power of life, from a writer who came from South America who writes in Spanish. I loved one story call "Secret Word". It is about a woman who wanders the land and tells stories. She gives out secret word to people.
And I also love the story that is called "Toad's Mouth". You will have to read that one yourself. I still have not finished the book. It is too good. I don't want to finish it.
A good story teller is forever loveable to me. Words are magical.
After a littel swim and sun bathing, I walked up to the terrance of the bar on the beach, getting breakfast. There is no American coffee in Italy unless you specifically ask for it. You get great Expresso.
Then I sat back and looked out at the ocean, at people, I thought of New York and Jinan, family and friends, people I know and like. I am missing them. I begun to write my postcards.
Recently when I called home, my mother said: yes, that postcard you sent, we got it. What is the name of that village again?
Porsitano, Mom, I don't have a Chinese name for it yet.